by Mark Dawson
“This way,” Sommer said, turning right. Jimmy pretended not to have noticed the vault and followed the general and Oksana.
Sommer stopped outside the last door on the right.
Müller took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall, selected one and slid it into the lock. He opened the door and stood aside to let Oksana and Jimmy go in first.
“I think this is what you asked for,” Sommer said.
The room was reasonably large, with enough space for two long trestle tables to fit along the wall end-to-end. One table held a launcher and the other several grenades. Jimmy picked up the launcher and hefted it, his hand around the pistol grip.
“This is the RPG-7. Russian-made, very effective. Brand new.”
“Very good,” he said. “You can source the numbers I need?”
“Of course.”
“What about transport?”
“You didn’t mention that,” Müller said.
“There are options,” Sommer cut in. “We can take it to the border for you, of course. You could collect it there. We might be able to arrange a transfer at sea—yes, Müller?”
“Perhaps. But it would be more expensive.”
“We can talk about that.” Jimmy replaced the launcher on the table. “What about the explosives?”
Müller went over to a crate that had been slid underneath the second table. He dragged it out, flicked the clasps that secured the lid and popped it open. “Here,” he said.
Jimmy moved closer so that he could look inside the crate. He saw two neatly arranged courses of brick-like objects, each wrapped in wax paper that was marked with SEMTEX-10 and warning signs. Jimmy took one of the bricks and opened the end of the wax sleeve and peeled it back. The material inside was brownish and left a dimple when he pushed his thumb into it.
“Military grade from Explosia in Czechoslovakia. The same as the Luftsturmregiment uses.”
“Blasting caps?”
Müller nodded. He took a canvas bag from the floor and unzipped it. Jimmy saw the blasting caps and took one out: it was a metal cylinder, closed at one end. They were simple to use: a fuse was slipped into the cap, the pyrotechnic ignition mix was added and it was attached to the Semtex. There was a countdown as the fuse burned and then the charge detonated and ignited the primary explosion: boom.
“Satisfactory?” Sommer asked.
Jimmy put the Semtex and blasting cap on the table. “Absolutely. It all looks perfect.”
“Very good.”
Sommer ushered them toward the door.
“Thank you,” Oksana said as Müller locked up.
“Really—it is nothing. Our two causes are aligned. My enemy’s enemy is my friend. I believe you told Müller that, Herr Walker. I agree.”
“I appreciate it,” Jimmy said. “So does my organisation.”
“I am glad to help.” He smiled indulgently. “And I owed Oksana a favour.”
Oksana returned the smile. “I heard that it went well.”
“Better than that,” he said. “It was simple.”
Jimmy looked from Oksana to Sommer. “What’s this?”
“I’m sorry, Herr Walker. I imagine this would be of interest to you, too.”
“What’s that?”
“What is your opinion of British intelligence? MI5? MI6?”
“What do you think?”
“You are from Belfast?”
“Aye.”
“Then I imagine you are not well disposed toward them.”
“You would be right. We hate them.”
“And with reason, I’m sure. You have experience of occupation.”
“I do.”
Sommer smoothed out his uniform. “Then I have something I’d like to show you,” he said. “This way.”
54
Mackintosh heard the key turn in the lock and straightened up in the chair. His gut was liquid; Sommer had said that he would return and, when he did, he knew that it was going to be unpleasant for him.
The door opened and light from the corridor was cast inside. Sommer came into the cell, but he was not alone. Müller came inside first. Behind him, he saw Jimmy Walker and Oksana Baranova.
“This is Harry Mackintosh,” Sommer said to Walker. “He is responsible for British intelligence in Berlin.” Sommer smiled down at him. “Was responsible. He’s had an unfortunate change of circumstances.”
The Irishman looked down at Mackintosh with grim, steely hostility. Mackintosh knew, then, that the plan he had gone to such pain to construct hung by the slenderest of threads. All of Mackintosh’s preparation, the hours of planning, the patient development of Walker, the careful creation of his legend and the sleight of hand required to put him inside Sommer’s sanctum; it all came down to this. He had agonised over how much to tell Walker, and had concluded that he didn’t need to know anything at all. Walker was the stooge; the credible patsy who could get a meeting with Sommer, someone who could make the general an offer that would tempt his greed, a useful idiot to lower his defences. And he had already served part of his purpose: helping to uncover Morgan had allowed Mackintosh the chance to send Cameron and Fisher against the men in the safe house. That had been the slap in Sommer’s face that Mackintosh knew he would not be able to ignore. He would have to be provoked and then offered the chance of vengeance. Mackintosh had offered himself as bait and Sommer had taken it.
Sommer looked at Walker. “The British and the Americans, they come to places like this and think that they can tell us what to do. It always amuses me how surprised they are when they realise that the situation is not what they expect. This one is no different. He tried to smuggle an East German citizen across the border. They had a tunnel—it was most inventive. But we have rules about things like that. They pay no heed to them. They think they do not apply. The English—they have a unique arrogance, don’t you think? A remnant of an empire that they lost many years ago, perhaps.”
Both of the East Germans were armed, with pistols nestled in holsters that were clipped to their belts. Jimmy was still staring down at him. Mackintosh looked away; he knew that Sommer would expect him to be frightened, and it wasn’t difficult to give him that impression. He was frightened.
Jimmy took a step up to Mackintosh, drew his hand to the side and backhanded him across the face.
“Yes,” Sommer said with a chuckle. “Very good, Herr Walker.”
Mackintosh winced, his face stinging from the slap. He looked back up at Jimmy. Sommer was behind the Irishman and wouldn’t have been able to see his expression and, yet, there was no acknowledgement there, no sign that Walker was playing the role that he had been assigned. Instead, all he saw was dull, angry hostility.
“What happens to him?” Walker asked.
“I haven’t decided. What do you think I should do?”
“Put a bullet in his head.”
Sommer chuckled again, turned to Müller and smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about the Irish,” he said. “Remind me not to annoy you, Herr Walker.”
“This isn’t a joke to me, General.”
“Of course not.”
Walker reached down and clasped Mackintosh by the chin, pushing back so that he could look down into his face. “The unionists in Belfast had a shooter, a man called McKeown, lived on the lower Oldpark Road, north of the city. They had an award for ‘Volunteer of the Year,’ gave it to the top hitman each year. McKeown won it four years in a row before we got to him. One night, McKeown knocke
d on the door to our house. My old man answered it and McKeown put a bullet in his head. I was sitting at the top of the stairs. I saw it all. Six years old.”
“Barbaric,” Sommer said.
Mackintosh had no choice but to stare up at Walker; he had no idea whether this was fact or fiction, but he knew that their future—his, Walker’s, Oksana’s—depended upon what Walker said next.
“We only found out later that British intelligence—men like this piece of shit—had been providing McKeown with names of IRA soldiers and encouraging him to knock them off. So, yes, you asked me what I think of the British? I fucking hate them.”
Sommer didn’t speak. Instead, he reached down to his holster, unclipped the restraining strap and took out his pistol. He stepped forward and held it out.
“Here,” he said. “You decide.”
Walker looked down at the Makarov. Mackintosh’s throat was arid and his fingers felt like claws, his hands clenched into tight fists, the nails digging into his palms. The Irishman took the pistol, hefted it, and then took a step forward so that he could hold it against Mackintosh’s forehead.
Walker looked back at Sommer. “Are you sure?”
“My gift to you, Herr Walker. Please.”
Walker had taken a step forward not just so that he could press the gun against Mackintosh’s head, but because he wanted additional space between himself and the two Stasi officers behind him. He turned, taking a half step back and to the side, swivelling his hips and aiming the Makarov. He fired, a single pull of the trigger, and a bullet mashed into Müller’s head, spraying brain and scalp against the damp brick wall.
Mackintosh saw it all: Müller toppled over; Oksana stumbled back, a splash of blowback across her face; Sommer gaped, swore and, as Walker’s arm turned to point at him, he rushed forward. The general closed in before Walker could take aim, grabbed his wrist with both of his hands and shoved his arm straight up. The gun fired again, the bullet punching into the ceiling, fragments of concrete falling down to the floor. Walker was younger and stronger than Sommer, but the German was fuelled by desperation. Walker tried to bring his arm down but Sommer held on, twisting Walker’s hand back and then reaching for the weapon. They fell, both of them locked together, crashing against the wall. Sommer butted Walker in the face, drew his head back and then butted him again. There was blood on Walker’s forehead, red running into his eyes. Sommer butted him for a third time, the gun came free, and Sommer had it.
“Stop!”
Mackintosh had looked away from Oksana. He looked back. She had a gun and was aiming it at the two men.
“Put the gun down and step away from it.”
“What?” Sommer said. “What are you doing?”
Mackintosh looked down: Müller’s holster was empty.
Sommer stood, stepped away from Walker, and took a step toward her.
Oksana’s face was spattered with Müller’s blood. “Don’t,” she said.
Sommer gestured down to Mackintosh. “You and him? You must be joking.”
She ignored him. “Jimmy—take the gun, please.”
Walker’s face was covered with blood, too. He swiped it away with the back of his hand and took the Makarov out of Sommer’s hand.
“Where are the keys for the cuffs?” Oksana asked him.
The general’s face went beetroot red and his eyes bulged. “You’re dead,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? All of you. I’ll kill you myself.”
Walker looked at Mackintosh, at Oksana, and then at Sommer. The doubt in Walker’s face changed and was replaced with something else: anger? Frustration? Walker took a half step toward Sommer, rabbit-punched him in the ribs, and, as the general bent double, grabbed both lapels and lifted him until his back was against the wall.
“She asked you where we can find the keys.”
“There’s a space where the guard sits outside,” Sommer grunted through the pain. “There’s a board on the wall. The keys are there.”
“Anyone else here?” Oksana asked. “Any guards?”
“No,” Sommer said. He glanced at Müller. “Just him.”
“Jimmy,” Oksana said. “Get the keys.”
Walker went to the door and disappeared outside.
Mackintosh’s arms ached. He had been trussed up like this for hours and his muscles were cramping badly.
“You set me up,” Sommer said. “This whole thing.”
“You’re greedy and insecure,” Mackintosh said. “Money and status—that’s all you care about. We offered you money and threatened your reputation. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist, and you couldn’t. You’re predictable, Sommer. And it’s going to be the death of you.”
The general shone a look of the purest hatred at Mackintosh, but he didn’t respond.
Walker came back inside. He held out his hand to reveal a bunch of keys, went to Mackintosh, knelt down on the floor in front of him and tried the keys in the restraints that secured his ankles until he found the right one. He unlocked and removed them and went around behind the chair to release the cuffs that were securing Mackintosh’s wrists.
Mackintosh got up and rubbed the skin that had been abraded by the shackles. His shoulders ached as the blood flowed around his body once again. Walker took the cuffs and went to Sommer.
“Well done, Jimmy,” Oksana said.
“Sit down,” Mackintosh told Sommer.
Oksana still had the gun aimed at Sommer and he wasn’t reckless enough to call her bluff. He sat down in the chair that Mackintosh had just vacated and didn’t struggle as Walker secured his arms and legs with the restraints.
Mackintosh took the gun from Walker and knelt down in front of Sommer. “Where’s Schmidt?”
The German’s eyes bulged with fresh hatred.
“It’s up to you. You can tell us and live a little longer or you can keep it to yourself and I’ll put you out of your misery. It doesn’t matter—this isn’t a big building. We’ll find him either way.”
Sommer gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw bulged.
Mackintosh closed his left fist and struck him, hard, on the bony part of his cheek. Sommer’s head jerked to the left. His face was flushed red, and there was an indentation on his cheek where Mackintosh’s ring had cut into the flesh.
“Next door,” Sommer said.
“Keys?”
“You already have them.”
“Stay with the general,” Mackintosh said to Walker and Oksana. “I’ll go and get him.”
55
Mackintosh went to the cell next to the one where he had been held. He took the keys, selected the one that looked most likely and tried it. It didn’t work. He picked a second key and tried that. This time, the lock turned and he was able to open the door.
The cell was dark, an inky gloom that absorbed almost all of the light that leaked in from the corridor. Mackintosh stood there and waited for his eyes to adjust. He saw a bed on the side of the room with no other furniture. There was a figure on the bed. It was a man. He was sitting up, his knees drawn up to his chin.
“Hello,” Mackintosh said.
The man didn’t respond. He was cloaked in shadow, and Mackintosh couldn’t make out his face. He stepped inside the room, and, his gun held down as unobtrusively as possible, took four steps until he was at the foot of the bed. Still the man didn’t speak. Mackintosh’s eyes had adjusted enough now so that he could make him out a little better. He looked to be of average height, much shorter than he was, and was slender. He had a thick head of light-coloured hair, unruly locks that spilled
over his collar. His face was thin, with dark eyes framed by thick brows, a precise nose and five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin.
“Günter—it’s Harry Mackintosh.”
He didn’t reply.
“I’m here to get you out.”
“Sommer?” Schmidt’s voice was tight with fear and tension. “Where is Sommer?”
“You don’t need to worry about him anymore. We need to leave. Are you ready?”
Schmidt was shaking with fear. “But Sommer will—”
“You don’t need to worry about him,” Mackintosh said again, interrupting him.
Schmidt still looked reluctant to move, even with Mackintosh’s reassurance. Sommer exerted a hold on him even now; Mackintosh wondered what the general had done to him.
“We need to go, Günter. We don’t have long—we need to be on our way.”
Schmidt swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I will come.”
56
Jimmy heard the sound of footsteps coming toward them from the corridor and, with the gun still trained on Sommer, he turned to see Mackintosh and a second man coming in through the door.
“This is Günter,” Mackintosh said.
Jimmy nodded. The man was young and quite clearly terrified out of his wits. He looked from Jimmy to Oksana and then to Sommer, his eyes bulging.
“We need to be getting out of here,” Oksana said. She gestured to Sommer. “I know he said there was nobody else here, but we saw guards outside. They probably can’t hear anything down here, but you can’t say for sure.”
“I agree,” Mackintosh said. He put his hand on Schmidt’s shoulder. “Go with Oksana,” he said. “She’s a friend. I’ll see you at the lift.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
